Cicely and Other Stories | Page 3

But Marcelle's promise helped her to
bear it. Marcelle was her older sister, the only person in the world left
to her, and Marcelle was teaching the village school at home. In
another year the last penny of the debts their father had left when he
died would be paid, and Marcelle would be free to send for Cicely then,
and life would not be so hard. Just now there was no other way for
Cicely to live but to take the small wages madame offered, and be
thankful that she was having such an opportunity to learn the
dressmaker's trade. She could set up a little establishment of her own

some day, when she went back to Marcelle.
Cicely did not hear the final words of Miss Shelby's argument, but a
few minutes later madame came back to the workroom with a bundle in
her arms. There was a worried frown on her face as she unrolled it and
called sharply to her forewoman.
Every seamstress in the room bent forward with an exclamation of
pleasure as the piece of dress-goods was unrolled. It was a soft,
shimmering silk, whose creamy surface was covered with rosebuds, as
dainty and pink as if they had been blown across it from some June
garden. Cicely caught her breath with a little gasp of delight, and
thought again of the sweet face that had smiled on her. Miss Balfour
would look like a rose herself in such a dress.
The next day Cicely saw the cutter at work on it, and then the
forewoman distributed the various parts into different hands. Cicely
wished that she could have a part in making it. She would have enjoyed
putting her finest stitches into something to be worn by the beautiful
girl who had smiled on her. It would be almost like doing it for a friend.
But she was kept busy stitching monotonous bias folds.
Just as she was slipping on her jacket to go home that evening, the
forewoman came up to her with a bundle. "I am sorry, Cicely," she said,
"but I shall have to ask you to take some work home with you to-night.
We are so rushed with all these orders we never can get through unless
every one of you works over-hours. Miss Shelby's extra order is just the
last straw that'll break the camel's back, I'm afraid. Try to get every bit
of this hand work done some way or other before morning."
It was no part of the rose-pink party dress that Cicely had to work on;
only more monotonous bias folds. But as she turned up the lamp in her
chilly little room and began the weary stitching again, she felt that in a
way it was for Miss Balfour, and she sewed on uncomplainingly.
She had intended to write to Marcelle that evening in order that her
sister might have a letter on New Year's day, but there would be no
time now. She wrapped a shawl around her and spread a blanket over

her feet, but more than once she had to stop and warm her stiff fingers
over the lamp. It was long after midnight when she finished, and she
crept into bed, her head still throbbing with a dull ache.
"The last day of the old year!" she said to herself, as she waded through
a newly fallen snow to her work the next morning. "Oh, Marcelle, how
can I ever hold out ten months longer? Nobody in this whole city cares
that I caught cold sitting up in a room without a fire, or that I feel so
lonely and bad this minute that I can't keep back the tears."
It seemed to Cicely that she had never had such a wretched morning.
The loss of sleep the night before left her languid and nervous. Her cold
seemed to grow worse every moment, and madame and the forewoman
were both unusually cross. She felt ill and feverish when she took her
seat again after the lunch hour.
Presently madame came in, looking sharply about her, and walked up
to Cicely with the rosebud silk skirt in her hands. "Here!" she said,
hurriedly. "Put ze band on zis. Ze ozair woman who do zis alway have
gone home ill. An' be in one beeg haste, also, for ze time have arrive
for ze las' fitting. You hear?"
Cicely took it up, pleased and smiling. After all, she was to have a part
in making the beautiful rose gown that would surely give Miss Balfour
such pleasure. Her quick needle flew in and out, but her thoughts flew
still faster.
She had had a gown like that herself once; at least it was something like
that pattern, although the material was nothing but lawn.